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Orientation 2

Naikan In Four Movements

This four-part Naikan series grew out of a course I offered at Baltimore Dharma Group in Spring 2025. While Naikan is often framed as a tool for self-reflection, I came to see it as something more relational: not a system of correction, but a practice of returning—again and again—to what holds us, what flows through us, what we leave behind, and what we remain with.
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Orientation 3

Threshold to Threadwork

Introduction: There are two doors into this work. The one below meets the moment. It is written in accessible language—for those seeking clarity about autistic experience, and especially about how it differs in rhythm, in structure, and in the invisible labor it asks of those who must translate themselves to be understood. But this isn’t the only way in. There is another door—quieter, less translated, more interior. If you're looking not just for insight, but for shape—if you’ve ever sensed that what goes unspoken is sometimes the most coherent thing there is—you may find yourself at home there.
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The Autistic Mode: A Way Of Thinking

We all have moments of deep concentration—those times when we are so absorbed in something that the world recedes. A musician practicing alone, refining a passage with exquisite focus. A philosopher turning an argument over in their mind, testing its weight from every angle. A scientist working through the layers of an equation, adjusting variables, refining the logic until it holds. In these moments, the noise of the world fades, and what remains is a kind of clarity, a steady presence of thought moving toward resolution.

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Musings from the Meta-Verse: Tip of the Iceberg Cosmologies

Before you begin: please take a moment, settle in, enjoy the image above—of me holding my baby daughter as a first-time dad, tune into the frequency of restful wonder. Now allow your mind to wander outward from the edges of that image: to the room, to the street outside, to the vast sky beyond the vast sky. Further—past the solar system, past the galaxy’s edge, past everything known—to the edge of the cosmos. And then…

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Woven

I never stopped making art. I just didn’t always call it that. What I made with you, my loves — in those days we shared — was the most embodied form of relational creation. Art was us — there was no interruption. Something Luu Li and and I talked about yesterday landed deeply. She said, “Wow Papa, 54 years! I'm so glad you’re starting to do art again.” And I told her — honestly — it’s never left me. But after that, I found myself thinking: when I was homeschooling Luu Li and CT, I wasn’t just not doing art — I was expressing my creativity through my life with them.
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The Bright Ones

There were always bright ones—those who moved with a kind of lightness I could never quite inhabit. They carried sorrow too, but wore it loosely, able to step out into the living world without dragging the depth behind them. This is a poem about that longing—and the home I eventually found.
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– If this speaks to you, you might also find something in Relics of a Firestorm ⧉ , Woven ⧉ , or You Were Always Redible ⧉ .

The Bright Ones

They walked with light at their backs, grief tucked quietly in their pockets, laughter slipping out between silences. What I loved — like a songbird alighting on the branch by my window: not the mirroring of my sorrow, but stepping past it without fear. I wanted to follow — wanted their brightness to pull me clean of my own deep wells. I did not know then: love is not following. It is standing still, arms open, letting brightness and gravity share the same field. I learned this beside her — the one who found the ground I had made ready, who made it her own, whose light I did not have to catch, only to meet.
A life built not by chasing the bright ones, but by learning to let brightness and gravity share the same field.
For orientation beyond this page, you may enter through:
•The Vibrating Thread: From the Field of Redibility
•Naikan in Four Movements
•Threadwork (or begin with  Threshold to Threadwork ⧉  for a gentler entry)
← View all in “Here Nor There” ← Previous "You Were Always Redible" Next "At the Bridge: In the Field of Redibility"→
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